


Saturday Nights

by shambling



Category: British Comedy RPF
Genre: Alcoholism, Drinking & Talking, Drugs, Fic Fest Submission, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, a fairy tale ending, it's not perfect but it's mine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 13:52:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6118408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shambling/pseuds/shambling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old fic i'd not posted before, I think it was to fill the prompt "fairy tale endings" possibly in 2012 or 2013.</p><p>Their relationship is built on cheap red wine and idealism, talking late into the night and shared hangovers, it's not really a relationship at all, at least, not until Ed suddenly realises that life is too short.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saturday Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow it transpires I'd never posted this. An old fill for an older fic fest, 2012 or 2013 maybe? The prompt, i'm 90% sure was "fairy tale ending", and this came to me on my own trudge home from working in a comedy club on a Saturday night, smoking like there was no tomorrow.
> 
> I think I wrote this for Marginaliana.

Saturday nights are the worst. Sunday's are okay because it's nearly over, and on Friday you've had enough time away from it to somehow forget the horrors. But on Saturday nights he sometimes wonders if he made a mistake somewhere along the line and ended up in the wrong job. 

Sitting in some dingy basement of a club, showing comedy before the dancing starts up, reasoning with himself about why he can't have a drink yet because it's a doubler; and then he still can't have a drink because he'd promised he'd be home as early as possible just in case. Being sober makes it worse, being able to smell the lingering nastiness of stale beer and sweat and bodies and being all too aware that your shoes are sticking to the floor. He has to strengthen his resolve not to rush the bar and demand whiskey to make it stop.

That makes the journey home worse though, on the last bus before it becomes a night bus; dodging drunken idiots who've cleared out of pubs or are on their way to clubs, all conversing as loudly as possible. It makes him itch in a way he can't quite explain, wanting something, a drink, a cigarette, something. 

Weeknights aren't so bad. Driving out to the middle of nowhere is fine, especially when you can't drive. Even the train isn't too bad, especially because it means he can drink if he wants to. Yes people might look disapproving, but certainly not the staff of the pub who's rooms he's entertaining. They all blur into one, above, below, sometimes just a badly lit corner. One forlorn spotlight to shine in his eyes. They don't care though, if he's drinking. So long as he's still funny. He hunches further into his coat, lights a cigarette and strides on towards home, shivering ever so slightly in the chill wind.

That was how they met, one soaking September night on the same late train home. A gig in the arse end of nowhere, Wales, or maybe Yorkshire, in the pouring rain. Not that it matters much. Barely out uni themselves, sharing a cheap bottle of red wine and giggling; they had the carriage to themselves and none of the staff who passed were going to begrudge them a little happiness on a miserable night. He remembers clearly, offering to share a cab home, which somehow became a “come back to my place” which moved almost inevitably towards sex except it didn't. 

He can't recall now, why that was. Maybe it was that Paul was in the next room, sleeping; the walls of that flat not much more than sturdy cardboard partitions. More likely it was that Mark looked at him with that desperate look he sometimes gets. The one that pulls in his chest and makes him suddenly want to gather him up for a hug. It's a look that communicates the desperate depths of aloneness he himself often feels, but can't express. Waking up the next morning, huddled together in the weak autumn sun, he wondered if it could be the start of something.

In a sense, he supposes, it was.They were young, idealistic, late night conversations about the semiotics of class, and endless bottles of cheap red wine. If alcoholism is the disease of the working class, then finishing the bottle is the scourge of the next rung up; regardless of what day of the week it is, although it has been years since that had any real bearing on the matter. 

That was the basis of their relationship, built on red wine and shared hangovers and both with a deep, heartbreaking inner sense that things weren't quite right and for a time it lasted; a fragile ceasefire in the war of the job. 

And then time passed, Ed got more famous and Mark wrote more, the tenuous ties of their relationship severed and for a time they went their separate ways. Not that it was ever really a thing, to most minds drinking wine and talking shit does not a “relationship” make, but then society often must quantify things by sex regardless of whether or not that fits the bill. So to all intents and purposes it was a friendly breakup, they still sat sometimes, drinking and talking and putting the world to rights; perhaps when they shared a gig or a train ride, but less often than before. No hard feelings, that's just life, whatever happened to that friend of yours, the one with the serious stare and the lovely smile? Just life.

If alcoholism is the scourge of the working classes and “we might as well finish the bottle” is the rung above, then coke is the poison of the media circles. Ed is of course, no stranger to drugs. Health classes at school telling them all that to so much as think about a spliff would immediately condemn them to prison or worse, hell; but reality informing him that actually lots of people do it at parties and it's fine sometimes. He doesn't even particularly like himself on the coke, but everyone's doing it and it does make the interminable media soirees that bit more bearable. It wouldn't do to admit that he's the saddest he can remember being and there's no reason for it. Coke hides that behind a brassy veneer of cocky charm; a veneer so brittle and thin it's like the cracked and peeling lino of his bathroom floor. He has spent too many mornings contemplating that, as the comedown sets in and he tries to decide how early is too early to have a drink, just to take the edge off. The lino is cool and gentle on the eye, and so often he lies there, head spinning and stomach rolling and wishing that it would all just bloody stop.

One day, quite without meaning to, it does. Ed is proud to say he's not a bloody coke addict, thank you very much, fags yes and maybe he's flirting with alcohol dependency but not the drugs, those are recreational and staying that way. Not that it has stopped them from interfering with his body somewhere along the line. Waiting backstage in some dingy comedy club for a lift to the station and he's horribly aware that his heart is beating, loudly, and fast. Too fast. He's sweating slightly and it feels like he can't breathe, trembling like a leaf and gasping for air and why the fuck has no-one noticed anything is wrong? Is he going to keel over and die here with everyone else too busy fucking hobnobbing by the bar; trying to jockey favour with some arse hole promotor who doesn't so much need more money as a swift kick in the balls.

(Afterwards, Mark tells him, that he looked fine, just a little spaced out, maybe a little pale.)

As quickly as it began, it goes again. The iron fist, clenching on his chest has loosened it's grip, his lungs inflate fully, and at last he is able to move, wipe the sheen of sweat from his face on the back of his sleeve. The guy giving him a lift, his name escapes Ed, extracts himself from the conversation; and in no time at all he is on a train home as though nothing has happened. Except that is has, everything has happened. Ed is suddenly, horribly aware that life is too short. He gets out his phone, sends a text, twitches, waiting for the reply.

\- I NEED YOU

\-- WHY? WHAT IS WRONG?

\- LONG STORY PLZ TRUST ME PLZ COME ROUND

\-- WHEN?

\- MY PLACE ASAP AM HOME IN 30 MINS

\-- OK

And true to his word Mark is there, waiting on the doorstep when Ed all but pours out of the cab, boneless and fluid with a mixture of relief and unspeakable sadness. His eyes are wide and worried, and he gives Ed that searching look that he knows so well, that makes him feel as though Mark can see into the depths of his soul. Tonight, it makes him feel safe.   
They lie together on the bed, the only place in the room there is to sit, drink cheap red wine, and Ed tells him everything, in painful and excruciating detail. Not all at once of course, his mind goes off on vague flights of fancy, mostly regarding the bedsit they are currently in; but he gets through it all, and without judgement, Mark listens, makes understanding noises, and holds him from time to time, when it all gets too emotional. 

They talk then, until the sun comes up and the wine has made everything hazy 'round the edges. This time, when it seems almost inevitable that they ought to have sex, they do. 

Ed offers up a first tentative kiss, which is met with enthusiasm, and for a while they simply cling to one another, kissing and holding like they might be drowning in the dawn light. The electric whine of the milk float forms a barely audible sound track as they work up the courage to start removing clothes. Later, the sodium orange glow of the streetlight clicks off abruptly, rendering the room in a sea of cool greys as Mark gasps gently against Ed's shoulder; Ed having finally thrust his hand below the waistband of his boxers.

Through the wall, the Today programme chirrups into life as they move slowly together, neither making much sound; and for one broken moment, just before he topples over the edge, Ed feels as though all the world is holding it's breath for them. Later, in a post-orgasmic haze he tries to articulate this; but without much luck. Outside the four walls of the tiny flat, the world carries on; oblivious to two people who are experiencing that cosmic shift from friends to lovers; a tiny renegotiation of the entire world. 

It wasn't the fairytale ending; and it would be simplifying everything too much to say that everything was fine from there on in. God knows the current struggles he was experiencing to get himself home on time and sober were testament to that. He lit another cigarette, rounding the corner , inhaling deep drags of it and wondering why the fuck he'd ever thought to switch to “lights”. 

No, not a fairy tale ending then, nor any kind of ending at all. Perhaps still one in progress, with the two of them together, propping each other up; sometimes emotionally, sometimes physically or sometimes just figuratively. He opened the door, went in, greeted by that look, the one that started it all, and made the whole sorry thing seem worthwhile. Not an ending then, no, but just the beginning of something new and exciting.


End file.
